Parents always boast about how gifted their children are. Either they are athletically blessed, or have advanced intellect; some are musical prodigies or may just have faultless charm. What was my gift? Well I was the obedient child, not just polite but obedient to the point of passiveness. I never disobeyed any requests my parents asked; “Alex, eat your peas.” I’d smile and gulp them down even though I despised them so and was actually dreaming of a contraband baked potato. My teachers loved it, almost to the point that they seemed to take advantage of me. “Alex deary, would you mind putting this box back in the closet, oh and this canister, oh and while your at, it take this to the fridge, and you might as well just grab the recycling too on your way out.” I would just nod, smile and obey. Don’t get me wrong; being passive did have its perks. I made many wonderful friends as a result of my submissiveness. The dearest one I remember to this day. “Alex, if you sit down on the ground and let my hit you with this cucumber from the toy kitchen, ill let you be my friend.” Kyle and I really bonded that day; it’s a friendship I cherish still.
After my first semester of preschool, my very first report card came. I was ecstatic, knowing that my sacrifices ultimately would yield a report second to none. As my parents shard my “report card” comments with me, all of them were incredibly positive, and my heart soared. But then, the crushing blow came. “Alex is a terrific kid but we are very worried about her inability to stand up for herself. Kyle repeatedly beats her with a cucumber and she just lets him.” Of all the nerve! That day, something inside me snapped, I didn’t want to be the perfect little girl that was continuously traumatized by a plastic cucumber. At that pivotal moment, I decided to take a stand. It happened that the next day, which so happened to be Christmas. I had been asking for a pair of Barbie slippers for at last 3 months, and I was dying to have them. After a book and some socks I finally got my slippers. I was so excited I wanted to parade them around the neighborhood to all my friends. Before my daydream of all my friends’ jealous faces was even complete my mom told me I couldn’t wear them outside because it would ruin the fluff. My four-year-old intellect didn’t process the potential impact of the Colorado elements on that quality Wal-Mart plastic and polyester. Fully infuriated by this, my newfound resolve fueled my insurgence as I grabbed the new slippers and threw on my coat. As I began my decent down the icy runway of my driveway, I heard jealous gasps and cheers from across the street, each girl practically drooling over my slippers. I accentuated each step and emphasized the flicking of my hair from shoulder to shoulder. Barbie herself could not help but be jealous of my beauty, highlighted by the fabulous slippers. In a fog of happiness, I finished my debut at the end of our neighborhood. It was then that my fantasy shattered. As it turns out, all the cheering and drooling were a mirage my slippers had produced. As I sat at the end of the sidewalk alone I started to feel a throbbing pain in my left foot. I looked down to see my first three left toes out of my slipper red with blood.
Not only were my slippers tattered and torn but they now had an unwelcome red stain that clashed terribly with the whites and light pink. I hurried home to get a band-aid and saw my parents still trying to assemble Jill’s new tricycle. As my great rebellion had only lasted four and a half minutes, they assumed I was in the bathroom. Particularly embarrassed by my failure, I slid into the seat between my sister and my mom and accepted my obedient ways. I never showed my mom the bloody Barbie slippers. Tucked into the bowels of my closet to this day, every now and then I glance at them-and mentally plan my next big rebellion.
